Summer slave in San Francisco Ch. 01

This is the story of the summer I spent as a sex slave in San Francisco.

Yes, it alliterates. Quite a bit. Maybe a bit too much. And I confess I used 'sex' mostly because it starts with 's'. Truth be told, I was more than a sex slave; perhaps 'personal slave' is more accurate. Not that there wasn't any sex, because there was plenty, but there was more to it than that. It's just that 'sex' alliterates in that sentence so well.

I'm getting distracted. You want to know what on Earth happened during my slave summer in San Francisco, and I want to tell you. So let's start at the beginning, shall we?

I peer at the text on my screen again, trying to view it with "fresh" eyes before posting it. I have spent so long agonizing over every word that it's honestly quite hard for me to gauge how it will come across to people reading it. To them, it will just be a post by a total stranger in the personals section of an online forum.

I try to imagine I'm browsing the web, maybe bored and a little horny, glancing through titles of new posts. To help with the exercise, I browse some of the other personals on this forum:

"single guy L4 mature bi couple for kinky fun."

"submissive bottom in Lakeview to serve men fully."

"spank me."

The list is endless. Capitalization seems rare, even rarified. Maybe that will set mine apart from the others, because I'm not looking for a fling, here. My proposal is deadly serious, and I need it to be stable: ideally, I want the arrangement to last for months, maybe even a full year if I can pull it off.

"I'll be your personal slave for free rent."

That's pretty eye-catching, right? I think so, anyway. It's bound to get some clicks, out of pure curiosity if for no other reason. And among those people... who knows? Some fraction of them are likely to have a spare bedroom lying around, unused (or hell, I'll take a large, walk-in closet at this point). And I'm hoping that some small fraction of them are also kinky and adventure-loving (or deeply lazy and desperate to offload chores onto someone else).

This is my plan for surviving my first year as a writer in San Francisco. It's April, I'm graduating in May, and I have no job, no money, and no place to live.

I've wanted all my life to be a writer, and I figure this is the best chance I'm ever going to get. I know that if I get a day job and write on the side, two things will happen. First, I won't have the time or emotional space to really write, to get in the flow and really produce authentic art. At best, it will be a bunch of chicken scratch forced out under great distress like play dough squeezed through one of those 'pasta maker' toys. No thanks.

Second--and perhaps worst of all--I'll become accustomed to the comforts of a steady income, my standard of living will invariably rise to match it, and I'll have nothing left over to save away for writing. I'll be trading away artistic freedom for comfort. Meanwhile, the dream of being an honest-to-goodness writer will slip away like youth or summer or... whatever. I told you I'm the eloquent writer type, right?

As my senior year of college waned and graduation approached, I committed to myself that I would give it a shot. "One year," I told myself. If after one year the whole 'literary fiction' gig hasn't panned out, I'll reevaluate. But if I don't at least give myself an honest-to-goodness year while I'm young and am not yet fully ensnared in the rat race I'll never forgive myself.

But addicted to income or no, one still needs a place to live. Writing while homeless is impossible. Doing anything while homeless is impossible. From friends who have experienced it, I know that homeless people spend so much time dealing with being homeless that there's basically no time or energy left over to do anything else. I need a place to stay, but until I sell a book, I have no money to pay rent.

On the surface, it sounds like a catch-22, right? I can't write and publish a book if I have a day job. But unless I get a day job, I can't pay rent. And if I don't have a place, I can't write. What I need is free rent for one year while I write the first book. Then, presuming I sell that book (a pretty massive presumption, I know), I can use that money to pay rent while I write the second, and so forth.

Basically, what I need is free rent for a year.

I know what you're thinking: who the hell is going to give you that? It's a great question, honestly. The cost of housing is so damn high that even hoping for the privilege of paying sky high rent to live in a shoe box sounds like an unrealistic ask of the gods of capitalism. But we live in a society of great inequality, and one of the things you should know about highly unequal societies is that they allow for people living side by side with wildly different circumstances. And, in some cases, those circumstances are mutually compatible.

Take, for instance, the young, single, tech worker. They generally have no children, live by themselves, put in a lot of hours coding nonsense social media or advertising garbage, and get paid very well. Such a person likely has lots of disposable income and therefore probably rents a nice flat--bigger than they need, in all probability. But they have very little spare time to do mundane things like cleaning the place, doing laundry, or even cooking half-decent meals for themselves. Quite the conundrum. Amply money, but insufficient time for a high quality of life.

And then there are people like me: no full-time job and therefore spare time and lots of flexibility in how to spend it, yet no income. Ample time and flexibility but no income also makes for a low quality of life.

But what if two such people joined forces? What if, say, the overpaid techie lets me stay in his redundant second bedroom for free and, in return, I clean the place, do his laundry, and cook his meals for him? I could do all that and still have plenty of time left over to write, while he would experience an improvement in his quality of living at next to no cost. I would, of course, be living in his space, reducing his privacy. But I could make myself scarce, barely noticeable except when he wanted me around.

You might also be thinking that this is a raw sort of deal for me, too. After all, I have to wash some immature tech kid's underwear, mop his floors, and cook his meals like some sort of domestic slave. But there again you would be wrong. Because I have a confession to make.

I'm a kinky bastard.

Since I can remember, I have been fascinated with being captured: defeated, then tied up by my captors. My first concrete memory of this is watching cartoons on Saturday morning. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are on and Donatello gets overpowered by a cloned version of himself who, to avoid the other turtles seeing two Donatellos running around, ties him up, gags him, and stuffs him in a closet.

Now, you should know that I loved Donatello the most of all the turtles, and I identified pretty strongly with him. I still remember being transfixed by this scene. To this day I can feel this buzzing energy vibrating in my body, especially in my thighs, belly, and crotch. Accompanying it is a squirming, churning sensation in my gut linked to a deep fear of being seen like this. I imagine being found by the other turtles all tied up and helpless. The situation is so utterly humiliating.

My obsession stayed with me into my college years. I took this scenario and fantasized about it over and over, modifying it in thousands of different varieties and situations. One of the most common themes, however, was that in addition to being tied up and gagged, my captor takes my clothes as well. Being found captive in my underwear only heightened the humiliation (and therefore the excitement), a feeling I still take an intense, perverse pleasure in. For me, this pleasure takes on a distinctly sexual flavor and I find myself intensely turned on by these scenarios of captivity and bondage. What's more, enjoy the scenario where I get captured as well as the one where I get rescued. Indeed, this has become more and more the focus over time.

The scenario goes like this. First, I find myself in a compromised position. Perhaps I'm with friends and lose a bet; or I'm a hero of some kind and I get defeated or surprised by a villain; or I'm home alone and a burglar discovers me there after he's already broken in and begun to rob the place. Next, the person with power over me (the person I lost the bet with; the villain; the burglar) tells me to strip. This is totally unnecessary narratively speaking most of the time, except to prove to me that they can do whatever they want with me. Turns out, making me take off all my clothes, revealing my slender, vulnerable body, is a great way to do it.

Once my captor has me naked (often, in the fantasy I would be wearing some really skimpy, eye-catching underwear because somehow this felt even more humiliating), they would tie me up and gag me. The resulting feeling--that my naked body was totally at their disposal--was incredibly erotic to me. I would often extend the scenario by imaging situations where my captor forced me to be their slave, serving them in my humiliating, near-naked state as a constant reminder that I had been defeated, overpowered, and rendered helpless.

Anyway, sorry for the long aside. Point is, I actually get really excited at the thought of being someone's personal slave, assuming they also really enjoy being my captor.

Now, I realize this isn't everybody's cup of tea, by any stretch. But the way I see it, if there's someone as fucked up as me, there's bound to be someone equally fucked up but in a complementary way, right? I mean, it's a big universe--there's gotta be people out there who would enjoy having a slender, attractive young guy around tied up and gagged, wearing nothing but a speedo or a thong, cleaning your house, doing your laundry, and cooking your meals for free. And all you have to do is let him stay in that small extra room you don't really use. Simple, right?

Not really.

It's honestly a rather complicated business finding two people with complementary interests (some of which are sexually charged), clearly communicating and negotiating those needs and wants to each other, and coming to a mutually beneficial, shared arrangement. I wasn't sure I had another angle, though, and it was at least worth a shot.

So here I am, reading one last time through the advertisement I'm about to post to the personals section of an online forum.

"Young, soon-to-be graduate from an elite college and aspiring writer looking for a small room, rent-free. Will cook, clean, do laundry, and run errands for you in exchange. I'm also rather kinky. I'm young, fit, rather good-looking (will send pics upon request), and will do all the above naked if you want. I'm the submissive type and would also enjoy being bound and gagged if that's something you're into.

"TL/DR: I'm a young, attractive, recent college graduate willing to be your kinky personal slave in exchange for free rent while I focus on writing. If interested, reach out to me for details."

Ok, this is crazy, I think to myself. Objectively speaking, this is insane. I'm literally offering to be some random stranger's naked, kinky slave just to get free rent and the time and space to write.

Wow. The starving artist archetype, but with a new, kinky twist. Using the internet to make this arrangement--and looking for a place in San Francisco, the tech capital of the world--makes it feel like a distinctly modern version of exploitation and humiliation. But, then again, I find certain kinds of humiliation quite exciting and rewarding, don't I?

I finally work up the courage to click "submit" and exhale the air I've been holding in my lungs. The irony of the word on the button I have to click is not lost on me. I imagine myself kneeling on the hardwood floor in someone's bright, airy, modern loft in a chic neighborhood of SF, doing their laundry wearing nothing but spandex, leopard-print briefs. I feel a squirming in my belly, a tightening sensation in my upper body, and notice my breathing grow light and shallow as my cock grows thick and hard.

Oh wow, I think. I really just posted that ad, didn't I?

*************************************

I force myself to take a walk, work on my senior thesis, and get dinner with friends before checking my email or the post itself for replies. For a while over dinner I even manage to completely forget that I've started acting on a plan to be someone's slave in exchange for rent. When I head back to my campus apartment, however, there's no more avoiding it. This part feels exciting in a purely good way, though. All I have to do is read replies--I'm not taking any risks yet. I pull open my laptop and check my email.

There are two replies.

"Sounds like you're just what I'm looking for. i'm 48."

Again, capitalization is random and optional. He must not have noticed that, in my post, capitalization is uniform and required. Such a pedestrian mistake. I don't even need the two unsolicited pics of his erect penis and hairy chest to know this reply is going nowhere. Delete.

"hey man. that sounds really fuckin hot. i'm a chil, safe and sane surfer here. but the idea of a bro coming over to completely submit to me sounds really hot. i'd love to make you clean up around my apt naked while i chill out on the couch. when i'm not using you, it would be hot to keep you tied up somewhere around the apt."

I'm not gonna lie, this one gets me all turned on. The thought of cleaning this surfer bro's place naked while he watches from the couch sets a cauldron of humiliated, erotic frustration boiling inside my body. And the last line--about how, after using me, he would keep me tied up somewhere around the apartment--taps straight into my personal brand of kinky eros.

But it's also pretty clear that what this dude wants is a one-time encounter. He thinks I just want to get my jollies. Which, to be fair, I do. But I want much more than that. I'm looking for a quasi-permanent arrangement, not a one night stand.

"Interesting. I appreciate that you're creatively negotiating your way to your dreams. I'm quite busy and therefore your arrangement sounds appealing to me, as well. How do you feel like coming over to my place for an interview?"

He even signed his name at the bottom. Alan. The lack of spelling or grammar errors instantly catches my attention and raises my hopes. Could this be what I'm hoping for? Is this actually possible?

I feel chills up and down my body. This is a very different feeling from my response to the surfer bro's email. This guy sounds serious. I'm not fantasizing about a sexy fling, here. I might really end up being this guys's slave.

What does that even mean? Now that it comes to it, my ad was very vague about that part. I had known from the beginning that the details would have to be negotiated between me and whoever took me up on my offer, so there hadn't seemed much point in putting stipulations in the original post. But now that someone has seriously replied, my lack of detail is leaving me feeling like I don't really know what I've signed up for.

Still, this is about as good an opportunity as I can hope for, right? And I can come prepared to negotiate. Honestly, the thought of having to cede ground on what my owner can do to me, to surrender more of my body by dint of my relatively weak bargaining position, sounds really hot.

Ok. Calm down. This is not just a fantasy. Potentially. Take this seriously.

"Would love to meet you. Let me know your address. I'm free any night this week. Here's my phone number, and a pic so you'll know who I am when I knock on your door."

Once again, I press 'submit'.

Oh, boy.

****************************

I get a reply back the next morning and we agree to meet that same day. Alan asks me to come over at 7:30. I ask if I should plan on taking my clothes off, if that's the kind of 'interview' he is anticipating.

"Of course," he replies (via text this time; I gave him my phone number). "If you're going to be my naked slave, I want to know what I'm getting."

That turns me on like crazy. The shameless objectification of my body and desire to own and control me.

Mmm mmm mmm.

But in addition to being highly aroused, I'm going to have to come ready to stand my ground. I sense right away that this Alan figure is the shrewd, calculating type who is used to getting what he wants. As well as knowing what he wants.

I'm anxious and antsy all day. I keep rereading his emails and texts--both for the fun thrill they give me and to try and get a sense for who I'm dealing with and what to expect. I can hardly focus on work and leave campus early. I'm taking the train into the city, and want to have plenty of time to spare. It won't do to be late to my interview.

The whole train ride up I try to relax, but can't. I envision stripping for this stranger, him seeing and judging my body. I'm generally pretty confident in my looks, but being sized up and evaluated for sex appeal in this way is like nothing I've experienced before. It turns me on like crazy. When I think none of the other passengers are looking my way, I play with my nipples to soothe the pent-up frustration and erotic desire.

I arrive at the station and begin the long walk to my prospective apartment. My prospective owner's apartment, I should say. It feels surreal, walking these very real streets, passing very real people going about their very ordinary, real lives--and here I am, heading straight toward a fantasy. But one that's about to get quite real. Maybe.

I try to reconcile the ordinary and the crazy living side by side in my experience of this unusual moment as the sun begins to set and dark settles over SF. But long before I manage it, I find myself climbing the steps to the fourth floor of a bougie apartment building.

Before I know it, there I am--about to knock on the door of apartment 454 and step into what might just be the craziest adventure of my life.

********************

I knock. It sounds flat, or maybe that's just my nerves. Everything sounds off or strange right now. I wait in awkward silence for long seconds. Maybe he isn't home. Under my sweater and jeans I feel my underwear intimately--a tiny, skin-tight thong made of shiny blue spandex. It has a pouch for my cock and balls that makes them really stand out. I chose it specifically to make an impression in case Alan decided to make me strip as part of this "interview." And, if I'm being honest with myself, in the hopes that if it comes to that he'll take my humiliating, revealing underwear as a peace offering and not make me take them off.

Oddly, I'm both excited and terrified at the thought of stripping for him. Part of me is worried the way I am before job interviews: worried about being examined and deemed unworthy. Another part, however, is incredibly excited at the specific combination of attention, helplessness, and humiliation that is guaranteed to turn me on. In fact, I'm getting hard standing outside this guy's door just thinking about it.

Which is exactly why I'm also squeamish. I'm worried that by the time I actually get my clothes off I'll have a huge erection, and for some reason I'm really ashamed of the thought of having a giant hard-on during our first encounter. Maybe I don't want to seem overeager? Maybe I just don't want him to know how much this turns me on?

If I'm being honest with myself, I know I've got hangups about my sexuality. It's just so weird and oddly specific and hard (not to mention embarrassing) to explain that I think I've developed a permanent sort of psychological complex about it. And I might be about to put all of that on complete display in front of a total stranger.

Speaking of which, all my anxious thoughts get abruptly cut off because I hear a deadbolt slide, the door handle turns, and then the door itself opens up.